


You are a Courier.

by AndeliaMaddock



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Anal, Head trauma, M/M, Oral, Rape, Violence, benny gets shot in the head listen i spoiled it but, courier - Freeform, i hate not knowing which person dies in a death fic so im saving you that pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 03:46:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10631505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndeliaMaddock/pseuds/AndeliaMaddock
Summary: This is a story about you, a Courier. You are not well in the head, yet people keep expecting the best of you.





	

You are not a hero.

You saved the town, because you didn't like the way that Joe Cobb bastard talked to you when you were just trying to get a drink in that shithole of a tavern Trudy had. Soon as Ringo was through thanking you, you kept on towards the darkness and crept towards Primm.

That town only kept alive because you don't appreciate assholes dressed like the last group of assholes, all trying to shoot at you. And maybe you appreciated that your tinkering got put to good use, and you got a robotic assistant out of it. Plus, that Nash guy, he was awful helpful in letting you know what that Benny guy up and shot you for.

He did ask for a sheriff though, and he seemed to think you'd be able to help, seeing as how you'd been a real go-getter in freeing that silver haired ingrate, Beagle.

But you are not a hero. You cocked your head towards the cowboy boot clad protectron and arched a brow. When Nash didn't get with the program, you sighed, stepped over, dabbled a bit with your screwdriver, and a few well placed hits with the palm of your hand. 

The new sheriff probably wouldn't shoot civilians, but that wasn't your problem. At least they had a sheriff. One that probably wouldn't get their brains blown out, like the old one and his wife had.

You moved onward, towards some big men shaking hands at the top of a hill. Seemed interesting enough, and maybe they'd have seen who went what way from their vantage point.

They didn't. Worthless, the whole lot of them. One of them sent you towards Nipton.

Nipton. Fire. Flesh burning. Smoke shimmering the air around it, thick in the lungs. Legion soldiers that marched towards you. And you, you marched towards them, as though you didn't have a fear in the world.

Maybe Benny did mess you up harder than you'd thought. This would make a lesser man flee. Maybe in the past, you would have. But seeing them, it didn't do much of anything inside you. Bullet to the brain, and you didn't feel much more than anger these days. But this didn't make you angry.

You. You are not a hero. You didn't admonish this clear leader among the Legion. You nodded, and listened, and said you'd likely take a trick out of their book when dealing with Benny and those bastards who wanted him to just get it over with. Great Khans, you think.

His smile was a sliver. A smirk, really. It curled, the way his words seemed to curl out, a noose of language. 

You are not a hero. But you don't like him. The way he smiles, it makes you angry. As though he's looking right through you. As though he thinks you're a worm like every other worthless, listless piece of wreckage in this big wasteland. 

He doesn't smile when you shoot him just like Benny did to you. He dies. The others die too. Inside, the dogs die. So many things die, but you, you live.

You shoot a man who calls you the Grim fucking Reaper. He's right. This makes you smile, but it doesn't make you happy. You blink when he's dead, on the ground, and feel like somewhere, somehow, you failed something. You don't care. You hate it when people talk to you like they own you. Like they deserve things from you.

When you hear that there are Khans inside, you go forward. You ignore the NCR dog telling you that they won't be able to save you if there is shooting. You don't need saving. You feel bulletproof. Even when you've been close to death, you always feel as though there is a way to pull you back, reverse time and make you exactly what the Powder Ganger said you were. The Grim Fucking Reaper.

So you save the hostages. It's happenstance. You just want the info from the man who watched you 'die' and buried you in that shallow grave. When he gives the info and lets the hostages go, you provide the same justice he would have had for you. You shoot him in the skull. He crumples.

You feel nothing. You shoot the rest of the Khans. You feel nothing.

You leave, ignoring the thanks of the NCR for your brave commitment to them.

Novac has problems. Brahmin getting brained. A man mourning a wife gone. Ghouls holed up in a useful place. 

You leave and continue on. They're adults. They can handle their own problems. You have one thing, and one thing only in your mind right now. Benny.

Bright lights of the big city, and you can see them in the distance, as you hoof it past Helios One. 

Being a Courier worked out for you for years. You're relentless in mission, and your endurance is one that can't be beat. Beat being a hired mercenary, or any other job in this hot, damnable desert. 

Benny is the mission though. He's the only thing you much think about these days. Benny. In your sleep, in your waking thoughts. He's the only one that gets you anything more than Angry lately.

People want something from you. Everyone wants something from you. Maybe when Benny is taken care of, you'll pull on back, and help all these sad sacks with their pathetic lives. Maybe you won't. After all.

You are not a hero. Even if people misunderstand your intentions.

Robots obliterate some drunk who tries to run for the mirage of salvation on the other side of that metal gate. The Strip isn't for everyone. But you've bought a passport from Ralph, thanks to reading a magazine or two about talking to people in ways that don't make them want to pull a gun, or tuck their tails and run. It worked out in the end.

The robot lets you through, and you casually step over the crumpled body on the ground. It's such a common sight, you barely notice it. Maybe you'd strip it down for its items, but locals around here, they don't have any caps on them usually, and their weapons are something anyone could get.

The air is as hot here as everywhere else. Everyone acts like this place is a goddamn oasis of riches, but it looks as shitty as everything else. The lights can't hide the darkness of this place.

You go directly towards the Tops. Some chucklefuck at the door tries to smooth talk his way into convincing you to give up your weapons. Calls it smooth and easy. Like a kitten. You eye him, but let him pat you all up and down. You've got your silenced pistol in your sleeve, not quite an ace, but enough to rig the game in your favor after how Benny cheated you before.

He smiles. You smile. You walk ahead, never one to be subtle. You could shoot Benny right in the head. You consider it. But instead, you walk right up to him, a strut in your steps, a smile on your face.

Time blurs like the air over the sand in the Mojave heat, but for the first time in a long time, you feel something else. A stirring of something. He really has a nice voice. You can't wait to hear it crack.

He's asking you something, you can tell from the tone, but you don't quite hear the words. There's a waterfall rushing in your head, so loud, so much. You step closer, try to listen. He licks his lips, and maybe you lick yours too, though the actions have different meanings coming from the two of you.

He offers to take you up to his room, to show you something.

You oblige. Guards stay here, you demand.

He obliges.

You don't feel angry. You feel giddy. All of this comes to a fruition. He leads you right to his own grave this time, instead of yours. 

But he does have a way with words, doesn't he? 

You rub your head. You've been doing that a lot lately. It all hurts, far more than you can handle at the best of times, but here it's so intense.

He apologizes, says he guesses he hit his target a bit too well, or maybe not quite well enough, if it's giving you problems. He laughs, but it doesn't reach his face.

You are not a hero.

Before today you would argue you aren't a villain either.

Blood pools on his bottom lip, and spills down in a little rivulet. 

You lick his lips this time. He squirms away, but he's not very good at it. You. You've had practice making people bigger than you bend to your will. He thinks he's tough, but he hasn't met the Grim Fucking Reaper on your terms yet.

Your terms being, him tied to the bed within a minute. It almost surprises you, when it's done. You feel like you're watching someone else do it, but there it is. Benny, tied nice and tight for you to enjoy.

He talks a lot, tries to weasel his words into your subconscious, work his way into your conscience. But he won't win. He might make you feel many things, but guilty isn't one of them.

You feed him a different sort of gun than you had thought you would. He chokes and squirms around it, but eventually takes it in. Lathes around the underside of it with his tongue. Even swirls his pink muscle up against the tip. He's got a lot of fancy tricks, evidently. 

You aim the silenced pistol at his head, and consider if there's anything else you want from him before you finish him off in a way he likely never considered happening during sex.

You decide, having him able to talk while you do it might be more fun. And this is fun. You're feeling good, right about now. Not happy, no, that's not for you anymore. But good.

So you pull out, and shake your dick off a bit. Slap him about the smooth shaven face a bit. 

He takes it, though his eyes are more focused on the gun in your hand. "Baby," he starts.

You hit him with the gun, a pistol whip across the face. "Don't."

Blood blossoms forth on his ear and along his left cheek, but he still manages to offer a weak smile. "You and me, we obviously got a lot to catch up on. Boy do I have things to tell you."

Despite how your actions might be seen as angry, you are not. You hit him against the other ear with the gun this time. Symmetry. He looks nice like this. Scared and bloody beneath you, tied to his own bed. A dribble of precum and saliva hangs on his chin. You smile.

"It was nothing personal, not in the least, sweety."

You consider hitting him again. You raise the gun.

The wince is a pleasant look on him. The way he tenses his body against the ropes, and clenches his eyes shut.

You relax your arm, and watch his body slowly uncoil the tension.

"It was about getting the rug out from under House, you dig? I know we got off on the wrong foot before, but baby, let me make it up to you."

You swirl his words around in your mouth, like a pre-War wine taster might. Then you spit it out on his face.

He grunts, and shifts his head, trying to fling the wetness off. "You're a real class act." 

"So I'm told." Down his body, you reposition yourself a bit, so you're down between his legs, able to work his suit pants off if you want to. You consider this with much more interest than his words.

"Listen. I know that look. You want revenge. But if you kill me, you're just playing your cards right into Houses hands."

"I guess I might not kill you then." Out comes the belt, and you toss it aside.

"Well, that's one relief. But uh, my buddy, my pal. I'm not exactly relaxing at the route you're taking in these... discussions." There is a curl to his lips, as though he's one of the Kings, with their strange faces. He doesn't have the right voice though, nor the right slang. 

You like it. He's panicked. He's off balance. You want to see how far you can push him, before he topples.

You smile. You lean in to kiss him, right in the middle of some honey mouthed excuse for why he did what he did. Just as before, he tastes of scotch and the tang of blood. You find him delicious. 

He's hard. For a moment, that sinks in. For all his protests, he's stiffer than the drinks in the bar downstairs. You smile.

He squirms. "It ain't like that. I'm into women. Not. Not that you're not a handsome fella, but. I don't swing both directions, you dig?" It's equal parts placating and panic. He gestures loosely with his bound hands. 

Despite, perhaps even fueled by, his protests, you remove his slacks entirely. The boxers you remove with the same lack of pomp.

It is a pretty suit. The knife in your boot all but begs to see some use cutting it off him. But you want that suit. Your shoulders would fill it out so nicely. Maybe you'll knock him out later and take it, then tie the brute up again.

The way he squirms just makes his cock press up against yours. He seems horrified.

You grind down. "Baby, but don't you like it?" You're not good at the voice these guys use, but it's a close enough approximation he seems to know you're mocking him. 

He grunts, and twists a bit harder. His wrists swell around the thick rope, and he eyes you with unconstrained malice. Too bad the rest of him isn't as free. He grits his teeth, but manages to speak a moment later. "Oh, sure, sure, Baby. Some of my best nightmares had things like this going on. What's not to love?"

It gets a chuckle out of you, and you lean in, so you can look him right in those pretty eyes of his. "What a coincidence. Some of my best dreams had this happening too."

He calls you a lot of things. Bastard. Rat. Fink. Half of them seem like slang he makes up on the spot, but then, you've got a brain injury and maybe those are real words. Doesn't matter. With every insult, you push harder, and with every plea, you pull back, only to take him a moment later.

Mostly, he doesn't plea though. You catch that. He might be a real cheap bastard, but he ain't the begging type so much as the everything else up his sleeves type. You can appreciate that at least. And how tight he feels. The heat of his body, the edge in his voice, the way when you're all the way in him, you can feel his cock twitch against your belly. 

You wouldn't even imagine he enjoys it. This is purely a physical reaction. But to taunt him that he might, that gets you a bit further into getting off. He tenses and tightens, and makes every thrust all the nicer.

You kiss him. You look him in the eye. Then you finish inside him. 

There's a look that a man gets in their eyes, when they've hit the limit of their hatred for another. Benny hit that point, but kept right on going. It flooded out into every feature on his handsome face, until his lips curled, his brows twitched, and his nostrils flared. "Happy now?"

You pull out and raise up the gun, level to his forehead. "Yes." 

The suit's a little bit bloody, but it looks good enough. You primp a bit in front of the floor length mirror, and adjust the suit a few more times, before you head to the elevator.

You are not a hero. You are a Courier. You have a job to do.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a sort of freeform writing experiment. It's not my normal style, but I liked it well enough I plopped it here. I hope it was enjoyable, if a departure from my normal works. Please comment to tell me what you think!


End file.
